


An Enchantment

by man_in_yellow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Half-Sibling Incest, Sharing a Bed, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25950793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/man_in_yellow/pseuds/man_in_yellow
Summary: Jon and Sansa meet at the wall, their feelings for each other develop, smut ensues.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 22
Kudos: 199





	An Enchantment

**Author's Note:**

> A one shot with some sweet moments but ultimately I wrote to get this smutty scene of a very horny Sansa out of my head lol. Enjoy and let me know what you think! :)

Shrouded in darkness and stillness they found their reprieve from the world. Separately they remembered the hundred deaths they’d endured and the hundred resurrections they had to claw through to get here. Daggers twisted in his heart when he dreamt and cold hard fingers gripped her arms as she was ripped away at again and again and again and again against the black of her eyelids. 

But, on this night, as cruel and bitter as the cold was, they stood in the enchantment that the gentle snowfall created around them. Here, in the harsh cold where nothing ever grows, a warmth bloomed between them that neither one of them had ever known. Not like this. Not in a way that each one could bare themselves to one another, raw and ugly and tender and sacred.

They had only found each other again two nights ago, but he could feel already the pull she had on him. The tug that made him want to be closer to her each time she looked at him, smiled, their hands brushed by accident. When she flipped her hair and it sent a whiff of her his way. He liked how she hummed to herself when she sat by his hearth to sew. How despite all the cruelty she’d endured, she still hugged him, leaned on him, and shared his bed at night.

Their hands were joined now as they walked to the godswood in the blue light of dusk not too far beyond the wall.

“I woke one morning, far beyond the wall, and the trees were glistening in the morning light,” he said as they sat before the heart tree. Sansa was layered in wool and leather, with his cloak around her shoulders. Her nose and cheeks were tinged pink from the cold and her breath rose in clouds. “It was the most beautiful thing I’d seen since leaving home. It made me think of you.”

*

“It made me think of you.” 

The words played over in her head as the days went on, making a heat rise from her neck to her cheeks each time. In all her life, she never thought Jon Snow would be the one to be her knight and her hero. Once there, buried in his furs and her body tucked securely against his back, she felt as though there had always been a string, a single thread, pulling her to him. She felt more at home here in his bed at Castle Black, his black curls against her eyelids and nose, than she ever did at Winterfell when she was married off to the bastard of Bolton. 

They slept each night with her pressed to his back, with the excuse that the nights were cold as their shield over the truth. They had both endured colder nights alone, they could sleep separately now and be fine and warm. 

But they didn’t.

*

“Thank you,” she whispered between his shoulder blades one night right before she fell asleep. They share his bed every night, and every night Jon curses the evilness in his bastard’s blood for how he revels in her touch and how his skin sings against the warmth and softness of her body. She thanks him for letting her slip beneath his furs and hold herself to him at night; if only she knew how he longs for this the second he opens his eyes in the morning. 

He could feel her steady breath in the space between his neck and shoulder now. They would ride on the morrow to meet Bolton’s bastard. He’d insisted that she stay behind with Brienne but she didn’t want to, and Jon would not be another man who made her do something she did not want. He turned to face her, something he never let himself do, not in his bed, not in the dimness of night. She opened up those dazzling ocean eyes, and looked up at him. He loops his arm beneath hers and wraps her up into him, places a kiss on her forehead. Her eyes are wide when he looks back down at her, her lips slightly parted.

“What was that for?” she asked. 

It wasn’t really  for anything. He was just thankful that she’d found him. Thankful that she gave him a purpose again. She ignited the fight in him again. And although he was tired of fighting, this was one war he knew he’d never forgive himself for walking away from. He couldn’t let their home and their brother be taken from them. He and Sansa would never be apart again; he made that promise to her the night she first arrived. 

_ Where will  _ we  _go_. 

His bones ached at the thought of combat, he could already feel the burning in his muscles that follows, the heaviness and weariness that joins it. 

But what she wanted was home, and he was going to give it to her. 

“I would do anything to keep you safe, Sansa. You know that, don’t you?” 

Her brows pulled together slightly as she nodded her head gently, ruffling the pillow beneath her head.

They slept facing each other, but first Jon made memories of how she felt beneath his hands, how her breath felt against his chest, how his bed, furs, and pillows were as much hers now as they were his.

Sometime in the night he awoke on his back with her half sprawled over his body. Her leg between his, her arm and head on his chest, hair covering part of her face. He lay awake for a while, letting himself feel their bodies gently press into and recede from each other with every inhale and exhale.

When he slept again he dreamed of their bodies moving beneath his furs to a much hungrier, much needier rhythm.

*

“What will you do with him?” Jon rasped. 

Sansa was scrubbing the dirt and blood off his face as he sat in the basin, wearing only his breeches. A fact that Sansa couldn’t get out of her head. They were in her old chamber in Winterfell (and having him wet and stripped in her room in the firelight stirred some things in her, but she pushed those things to the back of her mind), a fire burned bright outside her window fed by all the Bolton banners. Erasing the flayed man from the North forever.

They all burned.

Except the one who sat chained to a chair in their kennels.

“I’m giving him to the hounds he sent to hunt me down.”

Jon opened his eyes and looked up at her. He brought a hand up to still hers against his face. He held her wrist there, gently, his knuckles still bloody from pummeling Ramsay’s face in.

“You don’t have to be the one to do it.” His voice was hoarse and eyes pleading. He didn’t want her to kill him, she realized. But she wasn’t a girl anymore. She was a woman who grew up surrounded by murderers and monsters. She knew death. She knew it when the blade came down on her father’s neck. She knew it as her heart shattered into a million pieces when she’d heard of Mother and Robb. She knew the ache of it hung around forever, and was reminded of it when she thought of Arya, Bran, and Rickon. She knew the rot it yielded, the darkness it fed from, the emptiness it created.

She had died a hundred times.

(But not once like him.)

“Yes I do,” she answered.

*

He was the King in the North. All his life he wanted it. Winterfell. The Stark name. Yet, as they shouted and thrusted their swords up in the air, that same old accusatory voice came creeping back in. 

_ You’re only a bastard.  _

_ You don’t deserve this. _

_ You could never be worthy of this. _

_ You’re not Ned Stark. _

_ You’re not Robb.  _

_ You’ll only let them all down.  _

And then he looked down next to him, only to find Sansa looking up at him, eyes steady and knowing. And in them Jon found his anchor and truth. If she believed in him, he must be doing something right. Then she smiled delicately and proud, and he let himself smile back and face his lords and northmen, still a bit unsure, but strengthened by the woman who sat by his side.

She sat on the floor now, near the fire, embroidering lavender flowers onto a gray dress, humming to herself. “I told you you should take the lord’s chambers. You’re the king now,” she said. She was smiling softly down at her needlework, and Jon had the urge to cup her chin and turn her face to him, so he could see her fully. But he just sat quietly next to her and watched her nimble fingers work, pulling the thread through the fabric, turning intricate little patterns into flowers. He dragged his eyes lazily from her fingers to her arms, to the exposed skin of her neck, the line of her jaw, the curve of her lips, the slope of her nose which had a slight rise in the middle, the sweep of her eyelashes, her red hair falling down her back.

She turned to face him now, and something emboldened him to keep his eyes on hers. She reddened at the cheeks, and it brought him a dizzying pleasure to see it.

*

Who could know that Jon Snow’s eyes could be so soft? Those eyes that she’d seen full of fury and blood lust before were full of an entirely different kind of hunger now. Her fingers trembled and tingled up to her elbows. She’d tried, she’d tired  so hard  to push him out of her mind. But he was there, laying roots down no matter how much she wanted to tear them out. 

(And the truth was, that she  _ didn’t  _ want to tear them out, and she was tired of lying to herself that she did.)

“Jon. . .”

She swallowed tightly. She called his name, but she didn’t know what she wanted to say. No, she knew what she wanted to say.

_ I’m in love with you.  _

_ Kiss me.  _

_ Love me. _

_ Make me your own.  _

But Sansa was a lady; she was  _ the  _ Lady of Winferfell. She shouldn’t say such things.

Shouldn’t.

A lot of things shouldn’t happen that did.

A lot of people died who shouldn’t have.

A lot of people took from her what they shouldn’t have.

They both went through things they shouldn’t have.

So, who’s to say what Sansa should or shouldn’t do, say, want, or have?

In this world that had been cruel to her, Sansa found herself sitting in her chambers staring into the gray eyes of the man who protected her and gave her back her home and never expected anything from her in return for all the promises he’d kept to her. And she felt brave. Where was this courage coming from?

_From Winterfell. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell_ ,  she thought not for the first time. 

“What am I to you, Sansa?”

The question ripped her from her thoughts. He took the fabric and needle from her hands and set it beside her, leaning so close to her she could smell his scent. The scent that used to fill her nose at night before sleep came. He pulled back to look at her, and his eyes darkened when he caught her staring at his lips and licking her own.

“You are Jon,” she said, her heart beating against her chest at the way his breathing picked up.

“Aye, that’s my name,” he said, reaching up to move her hair back from her face, fingers brushing maddeningly soft against her neck. “But what am I to you?”

“Jon,” she breathed, intoxicated with how his eyes drank her in.

He watched her for a moment, eyes searching her face, trailing from her eyes to her lips and back.

“Tell me to stop,” he said. He leaned in toward her slowly,  _so slowly_ ,  his hand bracing at the back of her neck. “Tell me to leave, and I will.”

The room was painted orange by the firelight. Their faces were close, their quick heavy breaths was the only sound in the room, apart from Sansa’s heartbeat thundering in her ears. The heat of his palm on the back of her neck sent delightful shivers down her back. His face came closer now. 

“Sansa. . .tell me to stop and I will,” he said again, his voice deep and raspy, sending her stomach into a swoop.

His lips brushed over hers teasingly, stealing her breath from her chest, her need of him growing, his one hand on her suddenly not enough. 

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. 

He lifted his eyes from her lips to look into her eyes for a brief moment, desire and shock swimming in his pools of gray, before he crashed his mouth over hers. The sound that left Sansa surprised her, but it only made Jon kiss her harder. His lips were soft, and his movements firm but tender. Gods, how did he _do_ that? He held her face with both hands now, and he opened her mouth wider with his own, teaching her the steps to this new dance. Sansa reached out from within her for all the courage Winterfell held in its walls and found his tongue with hers. The gasp that left Jon pleased her, so she did it again. He answered her with a bite at her bottom lip. They pulled apart just enough to catch their breaths, and then Jon traced the shape of her lips with the tip of his tongue. Sansa let out of a shuddering breath. 

“Who am I to you, Sansa?” he asked again, breathless and raspy. 

“You’re Jon. You’re  _ my  _ Jon.”

“Aye, I’m your Jon,” he said, and blessed her with his lips over hers again. 

*

They spent weeks kissing each other’s lips, nipping at ear lobes, tracing patterns onto each other’s necks with the tips of their tongues. It got harder and harder each time to stop and walk away, but Jon promised himself and Sansa that he would not overstep. But she urged him on with her tongue, the roll of her hips against his, her searching hands, his name on her lips when he kissed her neck.

She liked to be pressed against a wall with her hands held above her head. He liked when she was the first one to press her tongue in his mouth. She liked when he carried her up onto his desk in his solar and stood between her legs, sucking on her lips and leaving them swollen. He liked when she whimpered as he pulled away before they went too far. 

He was kissing her now, holding her hands over her head against a wall, bracing his hips against hers, sure that she could feel his arousal. 

“Jon,” she breathed. He looked at her and found that delicious blush on her cheeks again, her lips swollen, eyes dark. She untangled her hands from underneath his and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling herself flush against him. “I want you, Jon.” 

“You have me, Sansa. I’m yours,” he said, lips brushing her earlobe now. 

“You know what I mean,” she huffed. 

He smiled and pulled back to look at her again. “Are you sure,” he whispered. 

She kissed him beneath the chin, his jaw, his neck. “Quite sure,” she murmured. She opened her lips over his neck and sucked, then let go with a pop. Yes, he wanted this. He wanted  _her_ ,  but he was afraid of moving too fast. 

“ Sansa, maybe we should wait.”

“Do you  _ want  _ to wait?” She asked, pulling away slightly and blinking in her doubt. 

“No,” he answered, pulling her tightly to him again. “I just don’t want you to regret anything.”

Her eyes moved back and forth between his. “Jon Snow,” she whispered, “I could never regret you.” 

He kissed her again, slow and deep, making sure to remember every part of this. He led her to his bed, the guttering embers the only light in the room. This wasn’t the first time he’d be laying with a woman, yet he felt nervous and young as a green boy. He took a deep, shaky breath, and felt his face redden as Sansa began undoing the clasps and laces of her dress. He fumbled with his own clothes, fingers clumsy and trembling, as if he’d never undressed himself before. 

Sansa was finished first, and let her dress spill to the floor around her ankles. She stood before him in nothing but her shift, and a new wave of heat came over his face and neck. He took in the line of her body, her arms that were scarred in some places, her chest rising and falling, the peaks of her nipples lifting the fabric slightly over her breasts. She started shifting her weight on her feet where she stood, and rubbed her thumb into her palm.

“Are you. . .” she stopped and swallowed, then began again. “Are you going to undress?” she asked shyly, quietly. He didn’t know how long he had just stood there staring at her, but he began moving his hands over his clothes again, shrugging off the fabric until he was standing in nothing but his breeches. Sansa reached up under her shift and pulled down her small clothes, making Jon’s breath halt in his chest. 

He stepped toward her and kissed her gently, letting his hand fall from her jaw down to shoulder, down her arm, and anchored his grip on her hip. With his other hand he undid the braid that held her hair back. He liked it loose.Sansa held her hands lightly to his side, and then let them travel up to his chest, sending a chill down his spine. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him tightly against her. Jon could feel her breasts against his chest, and he moved one hand down to cup her arse. A soft gasp left her as he squeezed. 

“Get on the bed,” he murmured into her mouth, breathless and needy. She did as she was told. Jon had seen Sansa laying in his bed countless times, but never like this. Never with her eyes dark and hungry; never with lips swollen from his kisses; never with her chest heaving and her back slightly arched. He leaned over her and kissed her mouth, jaw and neck, her breasts and belly beneath the shift. He slid her shift up to her waist and looked down to find her mound, his mouth suddenly needing to taste her. He bent down and kissed the insides of her thighs, pulling them apart until she was fully exposed to him; pink, shining, and swollen. 

He kissed her folds and Sansa jolted. 

“What—what are you—“

He kissed her folds again, and licked between them. 

“Ohh,” she sighed. Encouraged by her reaction, he kept going, tonguing her slowly until he found her nub. He closed his lips around it, and Sansa gasped as he sucked. He looked down to see her cunt was slick and wet. He placed his thumb over nub and rubbed delicately. He brought his tongue down to her entrance and licked up her wetness. “ _Ahhh_ ,” she let out. Her breath was coming faster now, and she had one hand on his head, her fingers tugging at his hair. He liked the pull she gave him when he found her right places. He looked up to see her mouth parted and her eyes closed. Keeping his eyes on her, he slipped a finger inside her. She was smooth, and warm, and  wet.  Jon’s cock hardened at the feel of her around his finger. He slipped it out and slowly pushed it back in, watching how she shuddered as her breath left her. He brought his tongue back down to her nub and licked at her worshipfully, thrusting his finger in and out of her slowly, enjoying her mewls and moans. 

When he slipped his finger out, a second one joined it back inside, and Sansa arched her back up off the bed. “Oh _gods_ , Jon. That’s it. That’s it,” she said as he thrust in and out of her and flattened his tongue over her nub. He could feel her fluttering around his fingers, and her wetness gushed from her now. She held his head flush against her and she bucked her hips up to his mouth, making him harden beyond what he thought was possible. He pushed his fingers knuckle deep into her. Keeping his mouth trained on her nub, he hooked his fingers inside her, and rubbed against a spot inside that tore a shuddering cry from her. Her walls constricted around his fingers, her arousal spilled from her in delicious streams that he licked up. 

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at her. She was laying flat on the bed, panting, cheeks reddened and mouth open. She opened her eyes and looked down to him, propped up on her elbows. 

“I want you inside me, Jon. Please.” 

*

The words left her mouth as soon as they came to her mind. Still panting from her orgasm, she watched Jon crawl up from where he was, his breeches off, and rested his elbows on either side of her head. He kissed her ear, jaw, and neck. He kept his lips on the side of her neck when he whispered, “Open up for me, sweetling.” 

His command sent a thrill through her. She did as he said, and opened her legs wide. She could feel how slippery she still was, and waited in anticipation for him fill her. He lifted his head and looked at her, eyes dark and soft. His whole body shifted lower for a moment, and then upward again as his cock halted at her entrance. He kept his eyes trained on hers, as his tip teased her, entering only just barely before slipping back out. Her need of him ached deep in her belly and spread to her fingertips.

“Gods, Jon, do it _now_. Please.”

But he didn’t. He only gave her the tip of him. Her cunt was throbbing now, aching for him. He brought his mouth down to her breast and sucked at her nipple. Her back arched and her breast shoved into his face. He opened his mouth to let her in. She laid under him, taut and wanton, breath labored and her face and body lined in sweat, and all she wanted was for him to fill her.

As if he read her mind-

His body shifted low for a moment, and then-

In a mind numbing movement-

He came back up and her walls were stretching around him. Sansa yelped at the sudden thickness of him inside her. “ _Gods_ , Sansa. You feel so good.  _Fuck_ — you’re so tight. You feel as good as you taste.” He groaned into her throat, and pulled almost completely out before plunging back in. He thrusted slowly, pulling a feral need from her each time he retreated. Sansa wrapped her legs around his hips, locking her ankles together. He reached down where they met, and rubbed at her nub again as he buried himself in her over and over again. Her stomach tightened with her building orgasm. Jon’s breath came faster and so did his thrusts. He slipped out of her, and when he found her entrance again, Sansa reached down, cupped his arse and shoved him up into her again.

“ _Fuck_ , Sansa,” he moaned. He slammed his hips into her. Hard and fast and relentless.

“Ohhhnnnggghh,” Sansa cried as her eyes slipped shut. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.” He rutted into her, in a wild and needy way that made her feel powerful. “Just like that, Jon. Harder.  _Harder_.” 

He moaned open-lipped into her skin, and his hips stuttered in their rhythm. Sansa was intoxicated by how she affected him, by how he responded to her. She tightened around him, clenched him, hoping he could feel how much she wanted him.

“Fuck, Sansa,  _fuck_.” 

“ That’s it, Jon. That’s it.” She tilted her hips up, trying to match his rhythm. “Gods, Jon, fuck me harder. Har— _ohhh_.”  Her thighs were trembling at the force of his movements, at his lips on her skin, at the way he moaned her name. 

He slammed into her, the sound of their slapping skin and her slickness gushing between them filling the room as he gave her one, two, three more thrusts, good and hard. His body relaxed, and he lowered himself onto her lightly. He stayed inside her as he brought her to climax again, thumb circling her nub and his hips rolling languidly into her. She bucked her hips up in her orgasm, waves of it washing over her, and Jon kept his hand there, rubbing her into a delicious third peak, her walls fluttering again. 

She lay there, sated and breathless beneath him, as he tried to roll off of her. She tightened her legs over him. “Wait, she said. Stay inside me. Just a moment longer.” 

And he did.

*

  
The pale morning light makes Sansa’s hair shimmer copper where she lay by his side. Her face is peaceful, her forehead devoid of that frown she often wore. Her lips are partly open, bare back exposed. He reaches for her, caresses her back, letting his fingers linger at the shiny raised scars. She stirs awake beneath his touch and smiles lazily at him.   
  


“What am I to you, Sansa?” he asks again. He dizzies when she throws a leg over him, places her head on his chest and answers, “You’re my king, my love, and my Jon.” She closes her eyes again and kisses him on his chest.   
  


She calls him hers, and it feels a greater honor than any he’d ever hoped for. 


End file.
